


bless your body, bless your soul

by goldfishtobleroneandamitie



Series: sirens will sing (music of the spheres) [3]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Fire and Ice, combeferre is the guide, kind of a songfic but not really, partner study, really long musing basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-02
Updated: 2013-05-02
Packaged: 2017-12-10 05:48:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/782507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldfishtobleroneandamitie/pseuds/goldfishtobleroneandamitie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've always known that they fit; what they'll never know is why. A dozen reasons why, if you will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bless your body, bless your soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [opabine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/opabine/gifts).



_This is the world that we live in_  
 _I feel myself get tired_  
 _This is the world that we live in_

Eponine knows that the only reason they work is that Combeferre is the most patient human being in existence. Not just with her, either; she’s seen him lose his temper a total of twice in their entire acquaintance. Once it had been directed at herself, when she’d (stupidly) accused him of cheating on her after he’d lost his first patient; and once with Enjolras, after he’d spent twenty minutes engaged in a vicious diatribe against Grantaire, culminating with calling him a useless, good-for-nothing drunk in a fit of rage. The entire Café Musain had been deathly quiet as the vitriol continued to pour forth, Grantaire transfixed by the acid words coming from the man he loved, when cracking across the café came—

“Enjolras, that’s _enough.”_

Combeferre’s voice could have turned lava to ice. It’s the only time anyone can remember Enjolras having nothing to say; he was frozen by the cold rage coming from the mild-mannered, glasses-wearing student sitting at the foot of the long table.

Combeferre’s anger burns cold and fast, a flash freeze, the anger of a truly righteous man fighting injustice. Her anger is fast, too, but it’s hot, and it explodes, covering everyone in the vicinity. His is fierce and directed against one object, and when the abuse has been rectified, it disappears forever. Combeferre does not forgive, he simply forgets. Once he is satisfied, it’s as if the issue never existed. He does the best impression of a saint Eponine has ever seen.

A by-product of this patience makes him a natural father to the overgrown five-year-olds that make up the Amis. However, he will not allow himself to parent her—Combeferre believes in equality as strongly as Enjolras does, but rather than pontificating about it, he simply _lives_ it. If she’s out of line, he calls her on it, but doesn’t discipline her. If she’s silly, he simply laughs; he doesn’t try to keep a lid on her antics the way he does Courf or R or Cosette or Marius. He meets her halfway, picking her up when she’s completely lost her shit and letting her pull him along on crazy adventures.

His calming influence is always there for her, but he always lets her choose if she wants to let it affect her (well, in theory. Honestly, she’s grounded just by his presence, which speaks to the Zen he exudes every moment of every day). If he tried to parent her, she’d react the way she does with her own parents—that is, with a giant _screw you_ and a sprint away, never looking back. Instead, he keeps her steady and she keeps him light, and she’s insanely proud of that.

She’s proud of the way she’s the only one who makes his hands shake, the only one who makes his hazel eyes go dark, and the only one who can steal his glasses and get kissed instead of cuffed. When she gets outrageously flirty, he doesn’t hand her a water bottle and tell her to cool off like he does Courfeyrac—he flirts right back. His innuendo is more poetic than Jehan’s and can be more explicit than Courfeyrac’s, and if no one knows about it it’s because he only whispers it to her. His anger may run cold, but without it he has the warmest eyes she’s ever known.

And in the bed—she’s damn surprised nothing’s caught fire yet, put it that way.  


_Well, maybe I was mistaken_  
 _I heard a rumor that you quit this day and age_  
 _Well, maybe I was mistaken_

_Bless your body, bless your soul  
Pray for peace and self-control_

But whether he’s capable of burning hot and cold (which he is), Combeferre’s greatest strength is his temperance. He neither drinks too much, indulges in too much food, nor cares too much for gambling or spending money. He could actually be interpreted as annoyingly perfect.

The only instances in his life where that temperance does not extend are, first, his schooling—he has a bad habit of taking about three more classes than any sane human could handle responsibly, and by the time finals roll around he’s rubbing his eyes redder than Grantaire’s after a night out, his glasses have imprinted themselves in his nose, and his wavy blond hair hasn’t seen a brush or shampoo in the better part of a week.

So she takes it upon herself to drag him from his books like a recalcitrant puppy, get him fed, washed, and changed, then puts him to bed for four hours before dutifully waking and caffeinating him so he can return to his studies. He grumbles like a five-year-old—an exhausted one, all uncontrolled limbs and disgruntled mumbles—as she takes care of him, but always strokes her cheek and kisses her forehead when he wakes, thanking her profusely as she presses coffee into his hands.

She allows him another eight hours of flipping between textbooks, collaborating with Enjolras on the classes they share, and gazing—with a stare that on a less focused man could be called glassy-eyed—at research papers before the cycle begins again, with six hours of sleep mandated at this time. They’ve done this for two finals cycles now and it’s worked out quite well.

The second is his friends, especially Enjolras. Eponine knows that if the leader calls, Combeferre will go, no matter what he’s busy doing—eating, sleeping, even making out with Eponine on one memorable, frustrating occasion. Eponine knows that Combeferre doesn’t consider her _second,_ exactly; merely that he considers Enjolras _first._

This goes for the rest of his friends as well; he’s been known to drive across town at two AM to pick up Courfeyrac and Bahorel from bars, drive Feuilly across three states, clear out Grantaire’s entire alcohol stash when he was on a bender (a dangerous venture even when sober), allowed Bossuet to crash on his couch when Joly’s mad, give Marius relationship advice, and watch Disney movies with Cosette—within the same month and, occasionally, the same day. Combeferre may be the picture of temperance and balance, but when he feels he is needed, he pours out everything he has and then keeps pouring, turning himself inside out until nothing remains to give. Running her fingers through his hair as he leans into her touch, Eponine’s found a few gray hairs tracing through the ash blonde at his temples, and she has absolutely no doubt to whom they are owed.

The Amis are reckless, each in their own way; Enjolras with his passion, Grantaire with his drinking, Courfeyrac with his partying, Bahorel with his mooching—and Combeferre moderates them all; editing Enjolras’s speeches, trading Grantaire’s vodka for water when he’s sufficiently drunk not to notice, putting Courfeyrac to bed after he’s staggered in, and opening his fridge and couch to Bahorel. He’s braided Jehan’s hair when he’s on his meriod, keeps a steady supply of Emergen-C in his bag for Joly and Band-Aids for Bossuet, keeps awful chocolaty coffee in the cupboard for Musichetta, helps Marius study for his economics exams, and has intervened with Dr. Valjean for Cosette on multiple occasions, vouching for her whereabouts and general safety.

It’s no wonder, then, that he’s got circles under his eyes all the time, or that he drinks four cups of coffee every morning just to be able to function properly, or that he doesn’t consider it an all-nighter until he’s been awake at least thirty-seven hours. Combeferre takes care of everyone, except for Eponine. She doesn’t let him; rather, she takes care of him.

Which brings her to the third exception; _herself,_ that is, Eponine. She doesn’t let Combeferre take care of her, and she sure as hell isn’t going to let him get comfortable. With Eponine, Combeferre is more adventurous, more prone to smiling—real smiles, not the half-smile he gets when amused or uncomfortable. Jehan’s written poetry to that grin, open and free, and even Bahorel, the densest of the lot, has noticed that Combeferre “loosens up”, as their resident Khal Drogo puts it, when Eponine’s around.

None of the Amis can call it anything but good—Combeferre can very occasionally edge from moderate to pedantic, and there’s no danger of that when Eponine is in his lap, hanging off his shoulders, tugging his hand, or bringing him truly ridiculous amounts of coffee (it really is good that she has an employee discount at the Musain, because the amount of caffeine her boyfriend needs even to function could bankrupt Zimbabwe in a few months).

And when they’re alone that doesn’t stop—and no, she doesn’t mean just _that,_ thank you, Courf. They’ve explored more of this small city together than should be possible, trying dives, visiting lectures on obscure topics that Combeferre either knows far more about than is healthy or obsesses over until he does, and doing silly things like having snowball fights or taking contra dancing classes. He’s unfairly good, and she practices until she can show him up. They now visit that club at least once a month, at least matching the other couples in skill, and teasing each other until they’re dragging each other back out, across town in a cab, and into one or the other of their apartments.

It’s there, though, innuendo aside, that Combeferre really lets go. He runs his hands along her body worshipfully, removes his glasses and sets them on the bedstand carefully—it shouldn’t be sexy, but it is—and proceeds to set her on fire. He’s wild with her there, more easily and more freely, than anywhere else.

Every time he snags her waist when he enters her coffee shop, every time he brushes her hair back from his book, every booming laugh that surprises the entire band when it lets loose, is a product of their relationship, and it’s a work of art equal to anything Grantaire or Jehan has created. This relationship they have is their _David_ , their _Madonna on the Rocks,_ a collaborative monument to unlikely, fiery, but nonetheless enduring love.

_I gotta believe it's worth it_  
 _Without a victory I'm so sanctified and free_  
 _Well, maybe I'm just mistaken_

_Lesson learned_  
 _And the wheels keep turning_  
 _This is the world that we live in_

But if she sets him on fire, Combeferre cools Eponine off. She hasn’t gotten in a bar brawl since she met Combeferre, hasn’t gotten in a hissing match with some prick from her Gender Theory lecture, hasn’t flipped off a professor behind their back. Even if he isn’t there, she wants to impress him; she wants to be a girlfriend he’s proud to call his. She knows that he would still love her, be proud, even, if she punched out the Dean of Students himself, but it doesn’t stop her from letting the temperance from her favorite man bleed into the previously untamed fire that burns within her, previously stoked with hurt and rebellion.

He does not douse it, oh no; he merely channels it, pushes her into her studies so her GPA is higher than it’s ever been, pushes her into applying for internships that she somehow _gets_ at a battered women’s shelter’s business department, pushes her into being a better mom for Gavroche than she would ever have dared to be. The first time she has a civil conversation with Gavroche’s teacher, during a parent-teacher conference that was routine rather than mandated by her brother’s behavior, she gives Combeferre the best night of his life.

His influence is twofold on Gavroche; first, through calming her into parenting rather than controlling, and second, through providing an example that Gavroche _wants_ to follow rather than subvert. Combeferre can get Gav to drink his milk, take his medicine, and go to bed at eight, with only a promise to take him to a meeting or teach him new words in Chinese or play Viva Piñata the next day (he’s terrifyingly good at it, driving Courfeyrac to distraction and Bahorel to curses).

This isn’t to say they don’t fight, because they do. She’ll bite out one too many derisive comments at Marius, or he’ll do the thing where he doesn’t talk for two days straight, and they’ll have a short, explosive fight—well, she explodes; he sits and lets it wave over him, sliding in responses in between shocks of Eponine’s earthquake. In the end, though, they both get out their frustration in their own way, and she’ll sit on his lap and promise not to be so acerbic, and he’ll kiss her and promise to talk more.

It’s a cycle, and neither of them claim it’s the best way to deal with things, but it works terrifyingly well. For them, fighting is really only a stress relief, and neither of them really believe that any squabble could truly separate them for long. If Combeferre is ice, and Eponine is fire, then they need each other—he needs her so he doesn’t give people frostbite, and she needs him so she doesn’t burn them.

_I can't take blame for two_  
 _This is the world that we live in_  
 _And maybe we'll make it through_

_Bless your body, bless your soul_  
 _Reel me in and cut my throat_  
 _Underneath the waterfall_  
 _Baby, we're still in this, oh, yeah_

Fights aside, this is the healthiest relationship that Eponine’s ever had, bar none. Her parents were shits of the highest order, her string of boyfriends hit her more often than not, and even her relationship with Gavroche is tinted, though not irrevocably, with the grunge of the street. Rather, Combeferre represents how far she has risen, from street trash to Amherst student, from motel squatter to the rightful owner (renter, anyway) of her own apartment, from arm decoration of gang leaders—a borrowed and fleeting immunity—to the steady girlfriend of a medical student who fathers her brother ten times better at twenty-two than the boy’s sperm donor full grown.

So despite everything she’s lived through, every bad decision or mistake that she’s made, Combeferre is worth it. She knows on a visceral level that for her, Combeferre is the end of the line. If she wants, she can have him for forever, with no more uncertainty, no more waiting for a right man to come along, because she’s got a good man right in front of her. If she’s been dancing on a knife blade her whole life, he’s turned that edge into a balance beam—still easy to fall off of, to be sure, but plenty wide enough for dancing and with no penalty if she falls off. No penalty and not even a bruise, because she’ll land in lean, strong arms. He’s her spotter as she floors crazy stunts, and she can pull off better, more solid tricks now that she knows he’s there.

But she doesn’t want to, doesn’t want to do anything that might hurt her, because she might hurt him too. So she dials back the wildness that lives inside her—not because he mandates it or even asks for it, but because she knows that their relationship will come out the stronger for it. And as of now, _they_ are more important than _she_ is. A cheap thrill of danger can never match the long-lasting burn she gets when she’s near Combeferre.

On a less earth-shattering level, she just loves the sound of _EponineandCombeferre._ She loves the way their names fit, the way that people don’t ask about them individually anymore. Not that they’re always together, but the fact that people assume that they will be gives her a fuzzy feeling that she would have thought would drive her nuts but instead wraps itself around her stomach and settles there, a reassuring warmth.

Every experience she’s had before this, every instinct that has been honed from what she’s lived through, should be screaming at her that this is far too easy, that this relationship is not something that someone like her gets. No one like her is that lucky, so lucky to get a man like Combeferre to stay with a girl like her. But she tamps down the memories and soothes the instincts with a simple spin into Combeferre’s arms, and when he wraps his arms around her waist and her hands tighten around his wrists, holding him there with every fiber in her thin body, her doubts disappear. She forgets what people like her deserve, or how unlikely this outcome is, and is filled only by the rightness of what they have.

_This is the world that we live in_  
 _I feel myself get tired_  
 _This is the world that we live in_

_I had a dream that I was falling down_  
 _There's no next time, alone_  
 _A storm wastes its water on me_  
 _But my life was free_

There’s no question that she used to have a freer existence than she does now, and that is surely owed in large part to the fact that Combeferre is simply not as adventurous as she is by nature. But she’s traded the freedom to hurt herself in for the safety and surety that he provides her—and does not feel the loss. Because freedom for her means hurt, it means loss, it means falling without a safety net. And as exhilarating as that can be for a time, it ultimately leads to hitting the ground hard and nearly dying (literally and figuratively). So she’ll trade in the exhilaration of a high for her safety net any day, because skydiving will always be more fun with a sure chance of survival on the way down.

_I guess it's the world that we live in_  
 _It's not too late for that_  
 _This is the world that we live in_

_And no, we can't go back_  
 _This is the world that we live in_  
 _I still want something real_  
 _This is the world that we live in_

She can’t go back to the way she was, because she’s not the same person she was, and neither is he. If he’s ice and she’s fire, she’s been brought down to embers and he up to water, still drastically different but far more willing to coexist than anything before. So she’s willingly burned down to the coals, and he’s allowed the ice he’s accumulated in his soul to melt, and they are both the better people for it. Combeferre is ice because she’s not the only one in this relationship that’s been through hell—he simply deals with it differently—not better, particularly, just differently.

When he’s been hurt, and he has, he retreats inside himself like a wounded animal, licking his wounds in privacy until he can face the world again, pain locked behind that odd little half smile. Now he knows on a fundamental level that he never has to be alone again, and to his inner four-year-old, who was raised by French-speaking nannies and would stay awake until obscene hours only to hear his father’s voice when he came home, the feeling that he no longer has to deal with pain and fear and nervousness and the crippling silence that seizes him at times is priceless.

He owes himself, as he is, more assertive and more confident, to his dark-haired spitfire, and she owes herself, as she is, more focused and more accepting, to her hazel-eyed guide. They belong to each other now, bound up in a whole rather than discrete halves that can be easily separated, and they each thank God or Fate or whatever brought them together every day for having been so goddamn lucky.

_I know that we can heal over time_  
 _This is the world that we live in_  
 _This is the world that we live in_

**Author's Note:**

> Song used is "The World We Live In" by The Killers. This is really disconnected and I know, but it's mostly intentional. Thank you for reading, everyone!
> 
> -star


End file.
